Glee

I spent the entire first season of Glee last night instead of studying. The show is exactly what you’d imagine: a high school glee club of misfits—stuttering kid, wheelchair-bound nerd, cheerleader queen—singing their feelings through an absurd world of rapping Spanish teachers, inexplicable phobias, and soft drinks that appear for no reason. It’s ridiculous. It shouldn’t work.

I thought we’d moved past High School Musical. Apparently not.

But here’s the thing: it works. Not because the plot makes sense, because it doesn’t. The writing isn’t smart. It’s trashy Fox melodrama in the purest sense—hot romance, decent humor, characters with real chemistry. It’s the kind of show where a gym teacher cries on the football field while someone sings Avril Lavigne, and instead of laughing at it, you feel it.

The story is tissue-thin. Thinner than Skins. But that’s the whole point—it’s not trying to be important. It’s just kids finding something that lets them be weird and broken and themselves for three minutes. There’s something generous about that.

I’ll keep watching. Probably claim it’s for my little sister.